My Aunt leans over and quietly comments that she thinks I should write a book about how I survived growing up in the same house as my brothers. I look over at the brother who's present; it's his birthday, and he sits at what would be the head of the table except that the table is a round table, and I can only imagine that it is the head since he is the birthday boy. I am not exactly sure what Aunt B means. I assume she is referencing the obvious differences between the three siblings.How could siblings turn out so different from each other?
I laugh and kind of brush off the comment, but Aunt B is fixated on me.
She references a family Christmas when her daughter who is some years older than me - between my brothers in age - came home from a night out with a neck-full of hickeys. My cousin had been out with my brothers and one of their friends. I'm still not exactly sure what my aunt is getting at, but from the tone I gather she's getting at something sordid.
Does she know?
I wouldn't care if she did. It was well over 15 years ago when I called a family (of the nuclear type) meeting and let the cat out of the bag: where I "confronted" my brother (not much of a confrontation because he admitted his "guilt" without protest).
I am an avowed victim of sexual abuse. I talk about it openly if appropriate, if asked. I joke about it. Part of my recovery consisted of blabbing away about it whenever I had the chance. I'm certain I scared a lot of people. It seems like such a 'big deal' to others. I'm over it. So, I don't care if my Aunt knows.
But, does she know?
Maybe my mom talked to her about it. Maybe my mom talked to her brother, my uncle, who in turn talked to my aunt. No matter how, it seems my aunt does know. Despite it hardly being the place to begin chatting freely about the skeleton that's not so much in the closet anymore, my aunt and I continue in private tones.
She shoots my brother a none too friendly look. "I mean you turned out so well. I really, really admire you. You are such a strong person."
I'm speechless. My aunt is almost 70.
How can someone almost 70 admire me?
When I recover from the weird compliment, I realise that I am currently in the position to ask a question about something I've wondered ever since I began remembering.
Someone called social services. I was 10 or 11 or 12. The social services woman knocked on the door, showed me her badge and asked if my mother was at home. The social services woman sat down with my mother and me and let us know that an anonymous person had called in a tip: that my brother was sexually abusing me. When I was 10 or 11 or 12, I denied it vehemently. My guts were wrenching.
They'll take him away.
Worse, they'll take me away.
How do they know?
"That's not true. I don't even know what you mean. Gross."
The social services lady believed me. My mother believed me.
I've often wondered who the anonymous person was who was trying to look out for me. I've sometimes thought it might have been my aunt.
It wasn't.











